


The Ballad of the Kobra Kid

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You might be gone, but out here in the desert, your shadow lives on without you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ballad of the Kobra Kid

**Author's Note:**

> A million years ago, someone on my flist ([](http://desfinado.livejournal.com/profile)[ **desfinado**](http://desfinado.livejournal.com/)?) said they wanted Mikey and Gabe in the Killjoys verse, and then it came out that Mikey was the Kobra Kid, and this story took hold and wouldn’t let go. Thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) as always for beta, encouragement and not shunning me.

  
When it all falls apart, Mikey’s in New Jersey.

It’s not like they didn’t see all the signs, the slow slide into corporation overlords that ends in a takeover that would have even the most conservative of news sources talking about Hitler if any of them actually existed anymore.

So everyone expects it to go down, but no one expects it to go down when or how it does, which is why he gets caught in an underground club in the old Jersey neighborhood, grinding against Gabe with a drink in his hand. It’s a bachelor party, so Tommy bought the place out, but that doesn’t stop SCARECROW and Dracs from breaking down the door and killing half the people there before the music dies.

Mikey doesn’t miss a step when Gabe jerks back from him, doesn’t think as he moves into him, ducking down and half-dragging, half-leading Gabe toward the back. He can’t help be grateful that they are where they are, because between the two of them, they know every nook, cranny, hidey-hole and make-out spot in the club and surrounding area. Gabe’s breathing is shallow and raspy, but he manages to keep up with Mikey’s pace until they slip inside one of the abandoned building s near the dock. There are cars and cycles and helicopters everywhere outside, but inside it’s muffled, almost hushed.

Gabe leans against a wall and then slides down to the ground. His face is pale under his darker coloring even in the dusty gray light filtered in through the broken windows, and his pupils are blown wide, blacking out all of the color. He slumps against the washed-out concrete and shivers, opening his mouth to say something before swallowing hard. “P…’parently dancing w’ you ‘s dang’rous, Mikeyway.”

“More dangerous if I ask you and you turn me down.” He squats in front of Gabe, catching his chin in his palm. “Hell hath no fury and all that shit.”

“Don’ stan’ in the way of you getting your groove on.” He laughs weakly. “Ha. Way.”

“You’re having a shit time breathing, Saporta. Don’t waste the air on bad jokes, okay?”

“’s it count ‘s a joke?” He hisses and jerks back, hitting his head on the wall. Fuck.”

“Can you sit up?”

“D…depends. You still love me ‘nough to end up covered in vomit?”

“I’ll take that as a no.” Mikey raises Gabe’s arm and looks, his expression carefully blank. “Hmm.”

“You saying ‘hmm’.” Gabe shakes his head, obviously fighting for control. “‘s…equiv…equivalent of an…anyone else in a state ‘f panic.” Gabe closes his eyes, exhausted from the effort, and Mikey takes advantages of the moment to let out an unseen shaky breath. “Just tell me.”

“Well. You got hit.”

“No shit.”

“And, apparently there is some sort of synthetic in your shirt or whatever, because it’s melted to you. So.”

“Great. That’s awesome.” Gabe tries to laugh, but it just comes out a wheeze. “Good thing I like this shirt.”

“Make our way to your dad’s,” Mikey murmurs as he touches the outside edges of the burn, feeling the heat coming off Gabe’s skin. “Get him to take a look at it. Give you something in the ointment family.”

“Only if by ‘ointment’ you mean narcotic.”

“Tomato. Tomahto.” Mikey straightens up and goes over to one of the windows. There are spikes of glass glinting from the shine of flashlights and police red and blues. “We’ll have to wait for a bit. Still a lot of shit out there.”

“Okay. Yeah. Well, in that case, I’m just going to pass out for a while. Wake me when we’re ready to go adventuring.”

“Yeah.” Mikey walks back over to him and sinks down, leaning back against the wall as well. He reaches over and squeezes Gabe’s hand. Gabe relaxes slightly, shifting sideways to lay his head on Mikey’s shoulder. Mikey listens to his breathing, hearing every faltering rasp. His phone is silent, and the screen is dark when he pulls it out of his pocket. Even though he expects there not to be a signal, it still annoys him. He has family and friends out in L.A. and he needs to know they’re okay. Gabe’s family is just miles away, but it seems just as far right now.

“It’s going to be fine.” He says it more for himself than Gabe, but if he hears it, it can only help. Mikey says it again and Gabe squeezes his hand in return. Mikey chooses to think that means he believes it.

**

When Gabe wakes up, he’s shivering with fever and his skin is pale and flushed at the same time, splotched roughly. The apples of his cheeks are rough with the heat. He groans low and leans away from Mikey, retching hard. Mikey rubs his back hoping desperately that Gabe is vomiting alcohol and finger foods and not blood.

“I’m thinking Diego’s is out.” Mikey’s not sure he can get Gabe off the dock, much less to his dad’s house. “How do you feel about breaking and entering?”

“I have always said that you know how to show a guy a good time.”

“That’s me. Life of the party.” Mikey stands up and reaches for Gabe’s hand, helping him to his feet. Gabe sways forward and Mikey has to catch himself to keep from reaching out and grabbing him. Daylight’s taking over for the gray-black of nighttime, and Mikey can see the purple-red spot of the ray gun hit Gabe took, boiled black skin and fabric clinging to the wet surface. It’s glazed over with some sort of fluid and he can tell by how Gabe stands that it hurts like hell or worse. “Hospital, clinic, pharmacy or vet clinic?”

“Saturday. Vet’s likely to be easiest. Hospitals are going to be hopping with activity, pharmacies are either busy or busy being looted and clinics aren’t going to have the hard stuff.”

“If you accidentally take a horse tranquilizer, I’m not hauling your ass around.” Mikey looks out the door. The dock is silent, and there are bodies everywhere, laid out in ragged lines. The Dracs like head-on or execution style, and it looks like most of the party is sagged lifeless against the wall of the club or piled high outside the door. “Wait here.”

“Fuck that.”

Mikey almost says something, but he glances quickly at Gabe, and for a moment, he can see the fear. It’s more disturbing than anything else Mikey’s seen so far, because Gabe doesn’t _show_ fear. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s go. Stay close to the building.”

“What are you, Rambo?” Gabe does as Mikey says, though Mikey thinks it might be more for support than anything. The club itself is eerily quiet, like something out of a ghost town. Mikey leaves Gabe standing by the door as he heads to the bar, digging behind it for whatever he can find. There’s a baseball bat and a sawed off shotgun, though there aren’t any shells. He scoops the handful of cash from the till and shoves it into the pocket of his jacket.

“What’s your poison?”

“Apparently poly-synthetic cotton blends.”

“Fucker.” Mikey catches the necks of four bottles of booze and carries them over with the rest of his haul. The gun and bat teeter precariously from where he has them pressed to his side, but he’s not about to let go of the booze. He’s pretty sure he needs it more than anything else at the moment. “Tequila.”

Gabe nods and takes the bottle after Mikey unscrews the lid, downing several long swallows. Mikey can almost feel the burn as well, the smell of it strong in the smoke. Gabe hands Mikey back the bottle and coughs, his eyes watering and his mouth wet. “Your turn.”

Mikey tosses back a few swallows and shudders. “Okay. How long since you hotwired a car?”

“I’ve never hotwired a car.”

“You know I’ve met you before, right?” Mikey glances at the bat and the shotgun, then hands the gun to Gabe. “Nearest vet office is going to require a car.”

“No way I can drive.” Gabe looks even sicker now that he’s breathing smoke and Mikey nods, shoving two of the bottles in his pockets and handing one to Gabe. Gabe takes it, and Mikey realizes that he’s not moving his left arm so well, his fingers loose around the bottle. “I’ll ride shotgun.” He barks a soft laugh, then starts coughing and Mikey presses his hand to Gabe’s shoulder, guiding him outside.

“That’s almost worse than the whole ‘way’ thing.”

“No, that one was awesome. Admit it.” The corners of Gabe’s mouth turn up and he follows Mikey to a line of cars. Some of them are smoked out, engines steaming and hissing. Mikey sticks to the shadows until he sees an old truck that’s seen better days, but looks in better shape than anything else on the block.

“What do you think?”

“I think that is a piece of shit.”

“Can you hotwire it?”

“No.” Gabe shrugs his right shoulder. “Need two arms. But I’ll tell you what to do.”

Mikey shrugs off his jacket and sets it in the truck bed before popping the driver’s side lock. “A lock pick and a hot wire. We’re two great tastes that taste great together.”

“Like you needed to wait until the world went to shit to figure that out.” Gabe leans over him slightly and coaches him through until the engine sputters then comes to life. “Why do I get that creepy feeling that we just told everyone we don’t want to see where we are?”

“Because we did.” Mikey grabs his jacket and shoves it into the truck then pushes Gabe in after it. “C’mon. C’mon. Slide the fuck over.”

“Next time you can have the gaping flesh wound, okay? See how goddamned fast _you_ move.”

“Yes, yes. You’re very brave. Now shut up and slide over.” Mikey picks up the bat from where it’s leaning next to the truck and swings it in the direction of the raspy breathing that’s behind him. He doesn’t hear the bat hit in the roar of the shotgun, but he sees the spray of blood, feels it on his face. “Fuck. I _hate_ this.”

“So get in and drive then.” Gabe’s found a box of shells in the truck, and he’s busy sliding another one in the shotgun. Mikey can see how hard it is for him in his expression, as well as in the sweat that glistens on his skin. “This fucking truck looks like it belongs to an immigrant worker. That means it’s tough as shit, just plow right fucking through them.”

“I was kidding when I said I wanted to be in a zombie movie,” Mikey mutters under his breath.

“Well, these aren’t zombies. They’re not quite as fucking stupid.”

Mikey barrels the truck down the center of the road and knocks over the Dracs who don’t manage to get out of the way. “You were saying?”

Gabe rolls his eyes and takes out another two Dracs with a shotgun blast. “Just drive.”

**

The animals are out of control at the vet clinic, making noise and throwing themselves at the cages when Mikey tumbles through the window and unlocks the door for Gabe. There’s hardly any color on Gabe’s face now, but the burn is turning some interesting shades, so Mikey hustles him past the howling dogs and into one of the surgery rooms. “On the table.”

“I never knew that was one of your kinks, Mikey.” Gabe leans against the table and slides onto it slowly. He’s gritting his teeth, hissing through them as he shifts back, and Mikey can see the glint of tears in his eyes. “Should I wear a nurse’s outfit? Or is this a leftover furry thing from Wentz?”

“Shut up.” He scrounges through drawers until he finds things that look like what he thinks he’ll need. Forceps and tweezers and swabs and alcohol and something he thinks is a horse’s bit. “Okay.” He sets everything on the table next to Gabe then goes back, returning with a pair of scissors and digging one of the bottles out of his coat. He opens it and hands it to Gabe. “Drink it.”

Gabe does as he’s told, swallowing down a third of the bottle before he sets it down. Mikey places the bit in Gabe’s mouth then leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead. He tastes sweat and smoke and something underneath that scares him.

“This is going to hurt like a bitch. Actually, this is going to hurt like a bitch in high heels stabbing you in the junk with spiked fuck me pumps.” He takes the scissors and cuts Gabe’s shirt off of him well clear of the wound. In the bright light of the room, Mikey can see it in sharp clarity for the first time, and he has to swallow hard against the urge to vomit. “Maybe worse.”

Gabe mutters something that sounds like ‘excellent’ around the bit and closes his eyes. Mikey picks up the forceps and grabs the first bit of melted cloth, tugging slowly. It stretches and pulls, charred bits falling away. Grabbing the tweezers with his other hand, he picks at the other end, trying to distinguish skin from cloth. He looks up at Gabe and then turns back to the wound, blinking away the onslaught of tears that blind him.

By the time he’s done, he’s not sure if he’s got it all, but it’s the best he can do. Gabe’s silent as death, which makes Mikey wish for a different simile, but Mikey can’t bring himself to look up and see his face. Instead he stares at the fresh blood and blistered skin and clears his throat a few times before he speaks.

“Now the part that hurts.”

Gabe chokes and Mikey looks up. He imagines Gabe’s laughing, since he hasn’t kicked Mikey away from him, but his face is white and his eyes are shocky and his face is wet with silent tears.

Mikey takes the alcohol and pours it on the gauze pad before pressing it against Gabe’s side. Gabe screams and it takes everything Mikey has to dab at the wound again and again. He doesn’t look up, because he knows there’s nothing left of Gabe in his face right now – he’s in pain and out of control – so he just keeps going until he’s got the entire surface covered and the alcohol smell actually overpowers the smell of the wound.

“I lied.” Mikey grabs the ointment he found, pretty sure it’s an antibiotic and painkiller all in one, if what he recognizes on the label, from his vast knowledge of uppers, downers and everything in between from years of doing and some dealing and being on every variation of prescription anti-depressants known to man. “I think this part might hurt too.”

Gabe makes another noise, which Mikey chooses to interpret as ‘I hate you’ instead of a guttural whimper of pain. It goes smoother than Mikey expects, and he knows he got the painkiller part right when Gabe’s breathing steadies slightly. Mikey tapes several gauze pads over the cream and the wound and stares at it for a while before looking up at Gabe.

“You know, if I’d know you’d take to a gag so well, we could have done a lot more adventurous stuff.”

Gabe flips him off with his left hand and spits the bit out onto the floor. “You’re an asshole, Way.” His voice is barely there, blown out from screaming and pain. “Now let’s find me some drugs.”

**

They take back roads to Diego’s house, but it’s clear before they get there that it’s too late. Gabe’s stoned, which Mikey is actually thankful for, since it knocks him out enough that he doesn’t seem to realize that his father is either dead or captured. Mikey keeps driving, heading south and west, wondering how long it will take to get to California and how much Gabe is going to freak out when he sobers up.

He drives the truck until it runs out of gas, then he just sits there for a while. He’s seen a few people wandering, all of them looking lost. He stays clear of them, not sure who to trust, and he checks his phone every now and then, hoping for a signal. Gabe’s quiet, passed out or asleep, though his breathing stays steady.

“We waiting for an engraved invitation or something?” Gabe’s voice is still rough, slurred around the edges from the drugs. “Also? That shit is awesome.”

“Yeah, well, it’s made for an animal that weighs twice as much as you do. We probably should have cut it in half.”

“No. No. A whole one was great. I feel like a new man. Sadly, I’m a new man who still has a fucking gaping wound, but, you know.”

“It’s not actually gaping.” Mikey flexes his fingers around the steering wheel. “It’s sort of glazed and crusty and gross, but not gaping.”

“Well then. I feel completely better.” Gabe rubs his hand across his eyes and then blows out a breath. “We need weapons. And ammo. And more booze. And where are we?”

“Somewhere…Pennsylvania-ish.”

Gabe breath hitches and then he nods. “Where are we headed?”

“Nowhere right now. No gas, and all the towns are like scenes from The Twilight Zone or something. No people, no…anything. The first few gas stations I saw were out, so we’ll either have to walk until we find one or hotwire another car and drive until we find one.”

“Can we find a car with air conditioning? It’s getting hot as fuck out here.”

“Such a diva. You need accessories now?”

“Hey, you want to smell this thing festering, more power to you.” He opens the door and eases out of the seat. They’re out of shells, but he still takes the shotgun and winces as he lifts his left arm to finish off the last of one of the bottles. “So, where are we headed?”

“Los Angeles.”

Gabe nods. “Probably not worth it to swing through Chicago, huh? Imagine they hit all the major cities first.”

“Yeah.” He wishes he could sugarcoat it, but he’s never been a fan of lying unless it worked to his advantage. Gabe might want to believe a lie, but he’s too smart to do so. It’s the same reason he doesn’t offer any kind of platitudes. People are dead. Mikey and Gabe have seen it. Some of those people are going to be ones they wish they could have saved. “So, walk until we find a car?”

“Or a gas station. Whichever comes first.”

Mikey hops out and swings the bat in a circle then starts walking, falling in step beside Gabe. It is getting warmer, but he still feels cold, hunching in his jacket as they scuff along the highway. Gabe practices moving his left arm, trying to increase his range of motion, but it doesn’t take long before he’s wincing in pain and lets it fall to his side. Mikey’s stomach starts rumbling and he laughs. “Fuck. You hungry?”

“I could eat the horse you thought I was when you drugged me. Except, you know, the whole thing where I don’t eat animals. What do we do? Scrounge for grubs and berries?”

“There’s a McDonald’s right there.” He points down the exit where the yellow M is brightly lit. “Even if they don’t have power inside, that shit has enough preservatives that it should be good for another year or so. And…hmm. I guess you can have some Mclettuce or Mctomatoes or something.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Maybe some Mccheese.”

“You don’t even care that I’m in pain, do you? All you care about is mocking me.”

“Actually, dude, all I care about is if they have Coke Zero on tap.”

The restaurant is deserted and Mikey heads straight for the soda fountain. Gabe moves behind the counter and tosses him a couple of cups before heading toward the back to forage for food. Mikey joins him after a few minutes, slightly concerned about Gabe’s silence. He glances at Gabe and sees his fingers are blanched white against the walk-in refrigerator door, and he’s leaning heavily against it. Mikey frowns and looks, nearly dropping both sodas.

There are bodies, at least twenty. They’re frozen, blue in color except for the black-green blistered marks where they’ve been hit. The burns look too similar to what Gabe’s had looked like earlier for Mikey’s comfort.

“They got hit before we did,” Gabe manages. “Or we’ve gone longer than I thought without food. Looks like they cleaned all the stuff out.”

“I noticed some pies in the thing up front. Why are they in the fridge?”

Gabe lets the door swing shut and it closes with a quiet thump. He takes one of the drinks from Mikey and drains the cup in a few quick gulps before taking Mikey’s hand and holding it over the bandages on his side. Mikey can feel the heat coming off of it before his hand is even near Gabe. “Burning up from the inside.”

“Just means the antibiotics are working.” Mikey takes a healthy slug from his own cup. “Come on. Let’s find food, drink until we slosh, clean up, and strategize.”

“Beyond ‘don’t die’, you mean?”

“Hey, it never hurts to have a plan for the big picture.” Mikey heads back to the front counter and pulls all the apple and cherry pies from the warmer. “You want a milkshake?”

“Nah.” Gabe shakes his head and throws a fry from the warming area into the fry grease. It sizzles and bubbles. “Looks like there’s still power. I’m making fucking fries, dude.”

“Awesome. Make, like, two baskets full. And nuggets.”

“Make your own nuggets.”

“The world has gone to shit and you’re seriously going to be all righteous vegetarian at me?”

“I’m not going to die with a bunch of helpless animals on my conscience.”

“You’re not going to die. Period.” Mikey’s voice doesn’t have any inflection, but Gabe nods, reading it anyway. “Also, you blew a bunch of guys away with a fucking shotgun.”

“They weren’t helpless.”

“Okay, so we’re okay in the kill or be killed camp. Good to know.”

“Asshole.”

Gabe dumps the fries in the baskets then lowers them one at a time. They’re both quiet until the alarm on the fryer goes off and makes them jump. Gabe drains the baskets while Mikey microwaves a pile of chicken nuggets, dumping them on a breakfast plate. Gabe salts the fries until Mikey can feel the heart attack from across the room, then scoops them onto one of the trays and carries it to the table where Mikey’s busy opening packets of sweet and sour and barbeque sauce. Reaching over the counter, Gabe grabs two small cups and fills them from the catsup pump before sitting down.

Mikey recognizes the exhaustion and strain on Gabe’s face, but ignores it, just like Gabe would do for him, probably _is_ doing. Mikey eats half his nuggets then licks his fingers clean before tugging a pile of napkins over beside him. Gabe tilts his head, smiling as Mikey grabs a pen and one of the napkins. “Okay. What do we know?”

Gabe steals one of the napkins and wipes his mouth. “That no general who mapped his strategy on McDonald’s napkins has ever won a war.”

“Like they’d announce shit like that. That’s top secret, man.” He presses the pen down and leaves a dark mark on the napkin. “Lots of dead people.”

“But not everyone, or we’d have seen more bodies. So they’re alive. Most likely. Somewhere.”

“So the question is where.”

“Possibly why.”

“How.”

Gabe opens his mouth to answer, snapping it shut as the TV in the corner of the restaurant flickers on.

“It’s a beautiful day.” The voice is mechanized and female, the kind of soft-spoken operator’s voice that always tells you to remain calm when every instinct is set to panic. “Everything is going to be fine. I’m so happy to be alive.” The screen is a swirl of images, subliminal tricks that Mikey’s fractured brain helps him ignore. They coalesce into a black and white spinning ball. “Resistance is unnecessary. Medication will help me. Surrender is the status quo.”

“That’s fucking creepy,” Gabe mutters under his breath as the spinning stops and the screen is imprinted with the image of a smiley face before it blacks out and the logo for Better Living Industries blinks onto the screen. The same voice speaks again. “The aftermath is secondary.”

“We’re going to need a fuck lot more booze.” Gabe stuffs a handful of fires in his mouth and chews slowly. “That’s some serious sci-fi shit right there.”

“No kidding.” Mikey shakes his head and eats another nugget. “So, strategy. Beyond ‘don’t die’ and ‘don’t listen to the creepy robot chick’.”

“Weapons.”

“Transportation.”

“Painkillers.”

“Food.”

“Booze.”

Mikey writes each word down on the napkin then labels a series of new napkins, making each word its own heading. They make their way through the rest of the food, adding ideas and items to the lists between bites. When they both fall silent, Mikey makes a face. “Okay. This kind of sucks.”

“Kinda?” Gabe snorts.

“Okay, so let’s look at this objectively.”

“Right,” Gabe agrees. “This really sucks. Weapons include a shotgun with no ammo, a baseball bat and McDonald’s food.”

“We have us. I totally know kung fu.”

“No. You know who Hong Kong Phooey is.” Gabe kicks Mikey’s foot. “And you saw ‘The Matrix’.”

“No. Seriously. Watch.” Mikey gets up and does a few moves, nearly kicking Gabe in the head.

“How do you do that in pants that tight?”

“I can do lots of things in pants this tight.” Mikey throws a series of punches and then sits in the booth next to Gabe. “I am a lethal weapon.”

“Yeah, the Way body odor doesn’t count.” Gabe laughs softly and rests his head on Mikey’s shoulder. “Lethally hot though.”

“Damn straight.” Mikey turns and kisses the top of Gabe’s head. “Let’s check your side.”

“No point.” Gabe sits up straight and shakes his head. “We know how it’s going to go. Just have to look back in the back. Let’s just get you as far as we can.”

“Stop it.” Mikey gets up and moves to Gabe’s other side. He lifts the bandages and bites back the urge to lose the food he just ate at the smell.

“Can we stop pretending now?”

“Will you stop acting like a fatalist dickhead and hand me the antibiotic cream?”

“You are such a stubborn ass.”

“Ha. You’re best friends with Pete Wentz. Next to him, I’m like super easy-going.”

“Yeah, well, Pete’s not always smart about shit.”

“Yeah.” They’re both quiet for a moment, and Mikey knows Gabe’s wondering the same things he is – if Pete’s okay, if Pete’s alive, if any of the people who matter to them are. “But telling you to shut your ass up and let me take care of you is not one of those things. Now, I’m Gerard Way’s brother, so I am resistant to your diva shit, got it?”

Gabe sighs but doesn’t argue any more, biting his lower lip until it blanches white while Mikey applies a new layer of ointment. “You know,” Gabe’s voice is weak, even after he clears his throat. “I bet those people have stuff here. Backpacks. Money. Keys to the cars in the parking lot. We should raid their shit. And don’t you even give me a goddamned vegetarian speech either.”

“Christ,” Mikey sighs, putting as much longsuffering exasperation in it as he can. “Shoot you with a ray gun and you sure get pissy.”

Gabe looks at him for a moment before he starts laughing. “C’mon, Way. Let’s go check the supplies.”

**

Gabe drives first and Mikey stretches out in the back seat, jacket over his head. He’s convinced he won’t sleep, but when he sits up again, it’s pitch black except for the neon green of the dashboard lights. The radio’s on, but there’s nothing, not even the low hiss of dead air.

“Time’s it?”

“Four.” Gabe’s voice is hushed, scratchy and thick with pain. “Need gas soon.”

“Next station. See if we can work magic on the pumps.”

“Saw signs a couple miles back. Should be hitting the bustling town of Nowhere, Indiana soon. You can work your Mikey mojo.” It’s an old joke, that Mikey can work magic on anything electronic, the same way Gabe sparks cars. “And I’ll raid the Red Bull.”

“Coke Zero for me.” Mikey crawls up into the passenger seat and glances over at Gabe. “Seen anything?”

“Lights in the distance. Cars or cycles maybe. No one’s cut this way. Makes sense, I guess. Chicago and New York are closer than LA. Something like this and I guess you head for the nearest, biggest population.”

“True. Your average horror film takes place in a town with a miniscule population. Usually just a dumb sheriff, a serial killer and his mentally disturbed family. “Mikey yawns and rubs his face. “Big cities are probably safer.”

“Yeah.” Gabe’s eyes are half-closed. “And considering we’re driving through nothing _but_ those kinds of towns, thanks for the visual.”

“Any time.” Mikey glances quickly at him. “You should crash out in the back after we gas up.”

“Yeah.” He turns on the blinker and pulls off into the shining yellow glow of a gas station sign. Once they’re under the light, Mikey can see all the strain in Gabe’s face, and he has to glance away. “It’s also possible that you could leave me here and get your ass to LA without worrying about me.”

“I’d worry about you.”

“Not for long.” Gabe stops beside the pump and reaches out, touching Mikey’s chin and making him turn his head. “You shouldn’t have to deal with what’s coming, Mikey.”

“And you shouldn’t have to deal with it alone.” He meets Gabe’s eyes. “I’m not going to leave you, Saporta, so just suck it up and deal.”

They start at each other for a long time, neither of them speaking. Mikey’s surprised when Gabe looks away first. “Okay.”

“Good.” He knows his voice reflects his shock at winning. “Now go get me some Coke Zero before I pass out from lack of caffeine.”

“Bossy little shit.” Gabe gets out of the car and walks to the store, holding the bat in his good hand. Mikey keeps an eye on him as he rips the face off the front of the gas pump and messes with the electronics until there’s a quick succession of bells dinging and the pump kicks on. He gasses up the car, burying a yawn in the sleeve of his jacket. Gabe comes back out a few minutes later with four bags full of stuff as well as two spare gas cans. “This is all they had. Next station we should see what else we can find. Can’t hurt to have a spare tank or two.”

Mikey fills them up after Gabe sets them down, careful not to spill anything. Once he’s got them full and capped, he glances over at Gabe, surprised at the silence. Gabe’s got his shirt off and the bandages are barely hanging on, the tape running green with pus, falling off his skin. Gabe’s looking down at it and his concentration makes Mikey wonder if he’s really seeing it. “Did you grab some first aid supplies?”

“No. Guess I should. And a new shirt.”

“I’ll get them. Use a water to wash it off.”

Mikey jogs into the station, trying to ignore Gabe’s stifled scream when he pours cold water on the wound. He finds cream and bandages and gauze and he pockets as many bottles of over-the-counter pain medications he can fit. There are a few racing t-shirts hanging from a rack, and Mikey smiles thinking of Gabe in any of them, but none more than the one he tugs off and stuffs under his arm.

Gabe takes one look at the shirt and flips Mikey off. It’s an impressive feat considering he’s shivering fiercely and hanging onto the car for support.

“What? It’s sexy.” The t-shirt is white with a woman’s bikini-clad, impressively endowed torso on the front.

“Yeah, but I don’t need to add fending off your confused advances to my busy schedule.”

“You wish.” Mikey sets everything on the hood of the car. “Let me see.”

Gabe starts to protest, but then turns, letting Mikey see his side. It’s definitely worse, putrid and necrotic. “If I turn into a zombie, promise me you won’t let me eat stupid people’s brains.”

“So much for being a vegetarian, huh?” Mikey opens one of the packages of Neosporin. “Besides, that might be all that’s left. Stupid and drugged.”

“Drugged is okay.” Gabe hisses, his head falling back as Mikey touches the puffed, swollen, red edges on his side. The size of the wound has increased, eating away at the healthy skin around it. “Fuck.” There’s pain in Gabe’s voice. “So long as they’re really _good_ drugs.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for you.” He twists off the top of the first tube, wondering if the twelve he found are going to be enough. “You want another horse tranquilizer?”

Gabe laughs, swallowing a rough sound. “Just because I’m hung like one…”

“Maybe one of those little dwarf ones.”

“Nothing dwarf about me.”

Mikey squirts the contents of the first tube onto the reddest part of the wound, waiting for Gabe’s sharp scream to end before meeting his eyes. “Certainly not your ego.”

“Fuck…fuck you.”

“Ha.” Mikey ignores the gasps as Gabe fights for breath as he adds another tube-full onto the shiny flesh. “I’d say not if you were the last guy on earth…”

“But we’ve already fucked?”

“That too.” Mikey has to smile. “But mostly, you know, what if you _are_?”

“You are such a _douche_ , Way.” Gabe grabs the t-shirt as Mikey tapes the gauze on his skin. He tugs it on awkwardly, and Mikey’s mouth quirks slightly. Gabe can’t quite cross his arms over the ridiculously huge breasts but he tries. “Just for that, you’re totally not feeling up my tits.”

Mikey actually grins at that. “Okay, _definitely_ not if you’re the last woman on earth.”

“Give me the fucking tranquilizer, Way.”

**

Gabe sleeps through the next five hours, still passed out when Mikey pulls over at a hotel, his eyes gritty with dust and exhaustion. He parks in the near-empty lot and groans, rubbing the back of his neck before bending it from side to side until it cracks.

Gabe doesn’t move and Mikey watches him for a minute, losing himself in the rhythm of Gabe’s shallow, unsteady breaths. He reaches out and touches Gabe’s brow. He’s feverish, his skin washed out except for his cheeks, still burning bright red. Mikey sighs softly then pulls his hand away, easing out of the car. Every muscle in his body protests, and it hurts like hell to stand up straight. He puts himself through a quick set of squats and stretches, fairly certain that his ass is permanently numb.

He shuts the door to the car and heads for the motel office. All joking aside, and even though the whole point of going to Los Angeles is to find people, it’s easy to believe he and Gabe _are_ the last people on earth. He’s not sure whether that’s an awesome or depressing commentary on society, even less certain what it’s going to mean if Gabe’s wound gets much worse.

Mikey skirts alongside the building, staying in the shade. There’s a small lobby that looks deserted, so he starts across the parking lot in a jog. He stops, skidding on the gravel and scraping his hands and knees as he scrambles behind an empty car. The door to the lobby opens and two Dracs walk out, their knock-off Darth Vader dust filters loud in the quiet.

Dracs used to be a rarity, local enforcers at Better Living Industries events, masks to hide their faces against retribution. Once BLI got big enough – taking over company after company before moving on to political parties and governments – the masks weren’t necessary, but they were iconic, part of the folklore, so BLI kept them. Now they’re everywhere, more visible than cops, more invasive than Google or Microsoft ever were. And given what Mikey saw at the club, definitely not on their side.

There are a few people behind them, all of them drugged and vacant looking. Mikey’s familiar with the stare. One of the Dracs turns his head to talk to his partner, waving the group off toward a line of white vans parked at the side of the building. The other says something Mikey can’t hear then turns and sees Mikey.

“Hey!”

Mikey turns quickly, cursing the fact that he feels like he’s running underwater, his reflexes slowed by lack of sleep, though adrenaline is doing its best to get his ass in gear. A ray gun blast knocks a hole in the wall over his shoulder as he turns the corner, grabbing onto the drainpipe to keep from losing his footing. He dives over the car, hitting the ground hard on the other side and crawling on his hands and knees to the door to wrench it open.

The shotgun blast sends glass flying everywhere, slivers filling the footwell and slicing Mikey’s hands as he grabs for the steering wheel and hauls himself into the car. “You could have opened the window first.”

Gabe shoves what’s left of the Drac back out of the car. “Fuck you. I woke up with you sliding across the car like Magnum P.I. and then the fucking Insane Clown Posse tried to eat me.”

“Now you’re just insulting the ICP.” Mikey guns the car, fishtailing out of the parking lot in a cloud of dust and gravel. Blasts of heat whiz past them, and a few hit the car, causing the paint to bubble on the doors. “Fuck. Crazy fucking…”

Gabe turns and cries out, twisting the flesh of his wound. “Fuck. Other way. Must remember that.” He peers out the back window and shakes his head. “They’re not following.”

“I only saw two of them and you turned one into hamburger. The other one had his hands full with a bunch of doped up people.” It doesn’t make him slow down though, and he goes at least seventy until he sees a gas station. He nearly sends them into the ditch on the exit ramp, ignoring Gabe’s white knuckles on the door handle. Stopping alongside the pump with a squeal of tires and brakes, he rests his head on the steering wheel and tries to catch his breath. “Not tired anymore.”

“Wait until the adrenaline goes.” Gabe wrenches his door open and nearly falls out of the car. His t-shirt is soaked at his side, blood and sweat and other things that leave a vaguely bread-like odor staining it so it’s no longer white. Gabe vomits alongside the car and then leans heavily against the doorframe. “Fuck.”

Mikey exhales. “All I wanted was a couple hours of sleep.”

Gabe nods. “You sleep. I’ll drive.”

“You’re medicated.”

“I’m a lot of things,” Gabe’s voice is sharp.

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I’ll gas us up.”

“Need the vacuum too. Lots of glass.” Gabe uses the car for support as he gets to his feet. He stays there for a minute, his eyes closed. “I’m fine, Mikey.”

“You’re not fine.” Mikey doesn’t look away. “But you can drive.”

“Like you have a choice. Do it or I’ll ooze creepy green and black shit all over you.”

“Okay, okay. I said you could drive. Doesn’t change the fact that I want to sleep in a bed, you know. Maybe shower.”

“Like you shower. I’ve toured with you, dude.”

“Whatever.” Mikey fills the gas tank while Gabe makes his way into the store. He stays by the car, leaving Gabe alone, letting him have some privacy. When he comes back out, he’s got some color back in his cheeks and a bag full of clinking bottles. “Booze.”

“Definitely hotel room.”

“Let’s get some more distance.” Gabe climbs into the driver’s seat at glances at the pump. “How’s our gas mileage in this thing?”

“You’re such an ass,” Mikey laughs and looks in the bag, pulling out a bottle of tequila. “Just for that, I’m going to start drinking without you.”

“Like that’s something new.” Gabe puts the car in drive and heads for the nearest on ramp. Mikey watches out his side mirror and drinks from the bottle, passing it to Gabe once they’re back onto the freeway. He takes a slug from it and then passes it back, breathing roughly. “So, here’s a thought.”

“Should I alert the media?”

Gabe ignores him. “We’ve been hitting gas stations and Motel 6s. They expect that, right?”

“I don’t think they expected us at the Holiday Inn Express.”

“Right. My point exactly. So maybe we stay somewhere a little more upscale. They’re less likely to find us because they think we’re going low-key, and we get some swank.” He touches his side lightly and makes a face. “To go with the rank.”

“Real showers.”

“Real, honest-to-goodness showers with water pressure and dual heads.”

“I could go for that.” Mikey nods and takes another hit from the bottle. “So, somewhere nice and fancy.”

“Somewhere that’s at least fifty bucks a night.”

“God, you are such a big spender.” Mikey leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. “No wonder all the girls were always after you.”

“I know how to show a lady a good time.” Gabe closes his eyes for a second and then opens them again. Mikey can see the flash of pain and wishes there was more he could do. “And you. You’re kind of like a lady.”

“In what way?”

Gabe just smiles and shakes his head, stealing back the tequila bottle.

**

Mikey falls onto the bed with a groan, closing his eyes. The hotel was deserted and ransacked, all the doors standing open like people had been shoved out of their rooms in the dark, herded up and hauled away. Given what he’d seen earlier, Mikey isn’t all that surprised. Whatever BLInd and SCARECROW are up to, it involves gathering up mass amounts of people and shuttling them somewhere _else_. Mikey’s surprised Gabe hasn’t gone off on some sort of Nazi rant, but then, sometimes Gabe doesn’t do the expected.

He hears Gabe turn on the shower and all he can think about is how much he wants the hot water coursing over his skin, even more than he wants to lose himself in sleep. Gabe opens the bathroom door and comes out, steam trailing behind him. He digs through the bag they’d loaded full of stuff in the hotel gift shop – food, drinks, toiletries, hideous salmon-colored polo shirts embroidered with the hotel logo – and pulls out the mini-pads that were the closest things they’d found to gauze.

“At least they have wings,” Mikey offers. “For your protection.”

“Shut up or I’ll make you help me.” Gabe pulls out the tweezers and sewing kit, two things Mikey hadn’t wanted to ask about.

“Do you need me to?” Being a lifelong fan of horror movies doesn’t make him immune to real life gore, and he knows Gabe’s wound has gotten worse. “Because I can. Will. Whatever.”

“I’ll call you if I do.” Gabe gives him a smile, blurred by tequila and pain. “Right now all I want to do is use all the fucking hot water.”

“Leave me something.”

“Nope. Not even a drop.” Gabe disappears back into the bathroom and Mikey rubs his eyes. Everything feels like it’s covered in grit. He lets his hand fall and stares at the ceiling, not even aware he’s fallen asleep until he’s jerked awake by Gabe’s scream.

Bolting out of bed, Mikey races for the bathroom. He hits the door hard, slamming it inward. The shower is still running and he can see Gabe through the fogged glass of the door, even though he’s several feet shorter than he should be.

“Gabe?” He doesn’t get an answer, so he opens the shower door and slaps off the water. He leans in, checking for a pulse even though he can see it pounding at Gabe’s throat. “Gabe?”

Thick gray-green ooze slides down Gabe’s side, the pair of tweezers dangling from what appears to be an opening Gabe must have pierced in a swollen pustule. Mikey turns and vomits into the toilet, bile burning his throat. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, silently grateful he hadn’t eaten, then reaches over and tugs the tweezers free. He clamps his mouth shut against the gag reflex as another spray of pus comes out followed by a thin trickle of blood.

“Fuck.” Mikey swallows hard and tosses the tweezers up into the sink. The rest of the wound looks less disgusting somehow, though he’s not sure how charred, decaying, peeling strips of flesh can be an improvement. “Screw L.A. Let’s just stay here.”

“Not gonna die in hiding.” Gabe’s eyes are barely open, and his voice is faint. “Get you to La-La Land.”

“Gabe…”

“I’m _not_ dying in fucking Missouri, Mikey.”

Mikey presses his lips together to keep from laughing, too afraid it will come out hysterical or dissolve into tears he can’t stop. “So…” He has to stop and catch his breath and start again. “So you’re saying if you die before L.A., I have to cart your sorry ass around until I make it there?”

“Like Sam McGee.” Mikey helps Gabe to his feet and turns the water back on, making sure Gabe’s steady before closing the shower door. It’s see-through, so it’s not actual privacy, even though it does give an illusion of it. He thinks briefly about the weird obsession with macabre poems Gabe’s always had, dating back to an overzealous English teacher at Rutgers who had a hard-on for Annabelle Lee. Mikey had spent enough sleepless nights in a van and on a bus listening to Gabe’s voice rumbling in the dark to know where this was going.

“Don’t even. I get that poem stuck in my head, I’ll kill you myself.”

Gabe laughs and Mikey washes his hands, closing his eyes in an effort to block out the memory of Gabe’s wound. It works better than he hopes or he simply dozes off again, because the next thing he notices is Gabe pulling on a lime green polo shirt.

“That is hideous.” He winces and averts his eyes. “And I’ve seen you in biking shorts.”

“Hey, this way the goop sort of blends in.” Gabe finger combs his frazzled curls. “Your turn. Shower. I’m ordering room service.”

Mikey laughs and strips out of his clothes, climbing into the shower. The tub is clean and the water’s still hot, only the wet film on the soap giving any hint that Gabe had been in there. He scrubs himself clean, reveling in the heat. When he climbs out, skin pink and sensitive, the room is choked with steam and he feels lightheaded. Opening the door lets in a rush of cool air and he shivers hard.

Gabe is stretched out on one of the beds, a thick, white, makeshift bandage covering his side. The tape is haphazardly applied, but nothing is leaking onto the bedspread, and Gabe appears to be asleep, so Mikey leaves him alone. He double checks that the door is locked, the deadbolt thrown and a chair shoved under the knob. He looks over at Gabe again then stretches out on the other bed. His stomach growls and he thinks about food, or given that he doesn’t wake up for almost a day, maybe he dreams about it.

**

When he finally wakes up, Gabe is sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a pile of _stuff_ , looking through it. Mikey sits up for a better view, noting discarded purses and briefcases on one side and a mound of cash, handguns, mace, pepper spray and more prescription bottles than Mikey can count. “Honey. You went shopping.”

“I found pants. And shirts that aren’t made for the golf course.” He glances in a wallet and pulls out a handful of bills. “This would be way more satisfying if we actually had to pay for stuff instead of just finding everything abandoned.”

“Aww. I’m sorry your life of crime is spoiled by a lack of victims.”

“Damn right. I raided the kitchen too. There’s real food.”

“I love you.”

“Might want to taste it first. Alex is…was the chef.”

Mickey ignores the slip. “True. You suck in the kitchen.” He looks a little more warily at the food. “Still, I’m getting tired of Corn nuts and peanut butter cups.”

“Not my fault you’re too up-scale for Three Musketeers.”

Mikey pads over to the table, grabbing one of the sandwiches. “Is this the famous Gabe Saporta grilled cheese sandwich?”

“There are _some_ things I’m good at.”

Mikey eats hungrily, trying to pace himself against the urge to stuff food down his throat. He groans and opens one of the soda cans on the table and drains half of it. “Fucking starving.”

“Don’t make yourself sick.” Gabe gets up from the floor slowly and picks up one of the messenger bags from the pile, then starts loading it with the contraband. “Seriously, why did all of the middle-aged tourists staying here think they needed handguns?” He checks the chamber on one. “I’m beginning to think they were prescribed right along with the anti-depressants and birth control pills.”

“Smith & Wesson as anti-anxiety?” Mikey finishes his first sandwich. “I’ll stick with Xanax, thanks.”

“I think these folks were more ‘the best of both worlds’, not that it did them any good.” He goes into the close and dumps several of the guns into the room safe. Mikey can see the pain etched around Gabe’s eyes, but neither of them mention it or the fact that the ease of Gabe’s movements hint that he found painkillers in the mess on the floor. “No sense in arming the enemy.”

“They’re using laser guns.”

“I prefer these. They stop the problem quicker.” He looks at the gun in his hand. “Not sure I’d wish this on anyone.” He shakes his head and smiles over at Mikey. “Grab some clothes and anything else you want. I got us a sweet new ride.”

“I just hope it has a full tank of gas.”

**

“Why did you leave all those guns behind in the hotel?”

“I consolidated the ammo. Nobody had more than a few bullets. I mean, if you’re going to bring a gun along, at least have the decency to come loaded for bear, you know?”

Mikey snorts and takes the curve fast enough that two of the tires leave the ground. Gabe grabs hold of the sissy bar above the door, holding on as the car slams back down on all fours, one of the hubcaps rolling off in the opposite direction.

“They still behind us?”

The roar of a motorcycle cuts off Gabe’s reply, as well as making it superfluous. Mikey slams on the breaks and the car skids to a hard stop, burning rubber leaving marks on the asphalt. The car shudders then jerks when the bike slams into the back of it. Mikey grabs the handgun in his lap and fires through the broken back glass.

White and black go red, and then the Drac and the bike both fall to the ground. Mikey exhales roughly and rubs his eyes. “You’re a vegetarian.”

“Thanks for the non-sequitur.”

“We’ve killed people.”

“Who are trying to kill us. Maybe our moral high ground is a little shaky, but they started it.”

“That’s our defense? They started it?” Mikey huffs a laugh and then shakes his head. “But you still won’t eat meat.”

“That’s how I know I have the moral high ground.”

“What about me?”

“You’re my plus-one. You get a pass.” Gabe glances back, watching for rising dust. “We should get going.”

“Not yet.” Mikey gets out of the car and goes back to the bike, listening to the radio traffic. The voices are jumbled – sightings, reports, last locations. He realizes they’re all talking about them and grins. “Dude. We’re famous.”

“What?” Gabe climbs out of the car, leaning heavily against it. Mikey reaches down and turns the radio up as there’s a repeat of the description of the car they’re driving, of where they picked up their motorcycle friend as a tail.

“They’re talking about us.”

Gabe leans against the mangled trunk. “Huh.”

The chatter cuts out, all of the overlap cut out by a single sharp woman’s voice, heavy with a Japanese accent. “Find them!”

Another voice follows up the shrill words, this one thicker, male. “Find them. Bring them dead or alive. They’re no one.”

Gabe reaches down for the transmitter and keys the button. It’s his stage voice, projecting through the empty landscape. “That’s where you’re wrong. We’re not nobody. We’re Mikey Fucking Way and the Cobra Kid. So bring it, assholes.”

Mikey laughs as Gabe releases the button and the radio goes crazy. “You realize we’re out of ammo, right?”

“Then we’d better get our asses in gear.”

**

The law of averages works for and against them. The Dracs are watching gas stations, but there are more stations than there are Dracs. Of course, a lot of those stations are out of gas. They end up having to hotwire two different cars just to keep running, dodging and evading the Dracs as best they can, since they’re down to a flare gun, a Nerf gun loaded with golf balls instead of foam ones, a box of thumbtacks, two quarts of oil and an ax.

“I feel like we’re in a fucking cartoon.” Gabe’s driving because Mikey keeps falling asleep at the wheel. Exhaustion and adrenaline keep fighting and he’s lost focus between the road and the surrounding landscape. “Just take one of the pills, Mikey. It’s not like any of this shit will save us.”

“Didn’t have drugs in cartoons.”

“You obviously never watched Scooby Doo.”

Mikey starts laughing, unable to stop. “Th-th-that’s funny. Because…because they wear…they wear…” He tries to suppress the laughter, trailing off into stifled giggles. “They wear m-masks…” He chokes, trying to stop, and turns toward the window, smacking his head on the glass and making himself laugh again.

Gabe shakes the pill bottle at Mikey, the car wavering as he drives with his bad hand. “Take it.”

“Can’t.” He’s still giggling under his breath, unable to stop.

“You’re exhausted, partially dehydrated, hungry and loopy as shit. Take the pill. Get some sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“ _Mikey_!” The shout reverberates through the car, fading off and leaving both of them silent.

Mikey sobers up, managing a straight face for almost thirty seconds before he starts giggling again. He takes the bottle from Gabe though and dry swallows one of the pills.

“Thank you.”

“Meanie.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He tightens his fingers around the wheel and keeps driving, singing softly to music Mikey can’t hear.

“’s pretty.” Mikey smiles sleepily and reaches out, touching Gabe’s leg. “What is it?”

“Something new. Making it up as I go along.”

Mikey giggles again, his eyes drifting closed. “Running for our lives across the country isn’t enough? You have to write a song too? Over achiever.”

“Don’t worry, Mikes. Just lyrics. Someone else will have to figure out the tune.”

**

He’s not sure how long he sleeps. His absolute failure at being a Boy Scout means that the sun’s position in the sky doesn’t mean shit to him. The car’s not moving and the engine’s off.

He looks around for Gabe and curses under his breath when he doesn’t see him. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Mikey gets his door open and climbs out of the car. His limbs feel watery, his brain slick with fog. He carries the Nerf gun with both hands, walking carefully toward the strange noises he hears in the distance.

The black smoke connects the sound to the word ‘fire’ and he moves faster, half convinced he’s going to find Gabe tied to a stake. He rounds the corner, sees black and white, and fires.

“Ow. Holy fuck. What the hell?” Gabe turns and glares at Mikey, throwing the golf ball back at him. “That fucking hurt.”

“Sorry. Black. White.” He gestures at Gabe with the gun. “Sorry.”

“Friendly fucking fire.” Gabe turns his attention to what he’d been watching before, and Mikey moves up to stand beside him. Two bikes and two bodies are ablaze in the small ditch below the ledge they’re standing on. One of the Dracs is rolling on the ground, mask melting to his face in the heat of the flames. Gabe sights along the barrel of the flare gun in his hand and shoots him, ending his writhing. He tosses it into the mess below. “Last shot.”

“I don’t understand.” Mikey shakes his head, trying to clear the last vestiges of the sleeping pill.

Gabe picks up a can on the ground next to him and sends it after the ray gun. Mikey looks behind them at the wall of rock, at the bright purple spray paint that glows in the orange light from the fire.

“Mikey fucking Way and the…” He pauses and laughs. “Dude. You misspelled _Cobra_?”

“It was supposed to be a C. I got interrupted.”

Mikey looks and sees the fresh slice through Gabe’s shirt, fresh blood boiled at the edges of the cloth. “Wow. Anti-graffiti laws are strict around here.” He glances back down at the fire. “What happened?”

“I stopped to pee.”

“Dude, you spent years in a van and a tour bus. You know how to pee out a window.”

“Not while I’m _driving_.” Gabe starts back to the car and Mikey falls in step. “I was just taking a piss and I saw them ride in. I was just going to spray the message so when they say it, they’d freak out that they’d missed us.”

“You’re an idiot.” Mikey laughs. “And your graffiti skills suck.”

“At least I didn’t fucking shoot you. Though the day is still young.”

“You’d just better hope we don’t break down, since you’ve used all our flares.”

“Guess you’ll just have to call Triple A.”

“Next time I’m going on the run with a mechanic.”

Gabe slides into the driver’s seat with a muffled groan. “Be my guest.”

**

They get lucky again in a little town in Oklahoma. The gas station’s abandoned like almost all the others, but in this one, Mikey finds another shotgun and a box of shells. The luck ends there, though, when a white van comes off one of the access roads in front of them and the back door opens to reveal several Dracs.

Gabe gets off a shot that blows out the back tire. The van swerves hard, sliding off the road. Mikey follows it, flooring the gas until the van lands in the ditch and disgorges white suits and black plastic hair. He and Gabe climb out of the car at the same time, mounting an offense without a word. Gabe takes out two with one blast, kicking one of their ray guns over to Mikey. They look even more like something from a video game up close, which suits Mikey and his skills just fine.

He gets another two before Gabe reloads, and they take down the last three between the two of them. “Like a fucking tour van,” Gabe pants, slumping back against the car. It’s kind of precarious, too close to the edge of the ditch, but Mikey doesn’t say anything. Right now, asking Gabe to move might be asking too much.

“I’m gonna get the rest of their guns.” He steps carefully down the sides of the ditch, trying to stay away from random body parts Gabe’s blast sprayed across the ground. He pulls a blaster from a dismembered hand before searching for the rest.

“We’re fucking awesome, you know that?” Gabe’s caught his breath, but he’s still pale. Mikey grins at him and nods, checking to make sure the van’s actually empty. “Don’t fucking forget who we are, assholes. Mikey fucking Way and the Cobra Kid.”

Mikey laughs and uses one of the ray guns to blast the dashboard and the radio, sending sparks dancing. “Fuck yeah.”

**

Gabe gets worse after that, fading in and out of consciousness when Mikey drives. They stop more often and Gabe doesn’t protest, which is how Mikey knows it’s really getting bad. When they do drive, Gabe keeps his window open, though the outside temperatures continue to get hotter and hotter the further west they go.

They cross the border out of Texas and into New Mexico when a van comes out of nowhere, just a sudden blinding light from the horizon. Mikey curses under his breath when the y pass it, reaching over to jostle Gabe as the dust rises up in the van’s wake as it turns to pursue them.

“Fuck. Wake up, Saporta.”

“Fuck off. I’m awake.” Gabe’s voice is slurred with pain, his accent thick. Mikey has a hard time looking at him now, hating feeling helpless. The ray guns died on them during a firefight near Austin, so Gabe pumps the shotgun barrel and shifts in his seat, getting onto his knees. He grunts softly, obviously suppressing the sound, as Mikey accelerates. “Hey, if I fall out, keep going, huh?”

“Fuck you.” Mikey grabs Gabe’s belt at the small of his back, steering one-handed as Gabe leans out and fires behind them.

“We really need to assign point values,” Gabe ducks back into the car to pump the barrel again. “Because I’m totally kicking your ass.”

“Only because you fall asleep when it’s your turn to drive.”

“That’s what you think.” He leans out the window, firing again. Mikey sees smoke in the dust behind them, but the van keeps moving. “Shit.”

“What? Let me guess, you suck at this as much as you do at Halo.”

“Fuck you.” Gabe pumps the gun again, his voice almost lost in the wind. Mikey tightens his grip instinctively on both the wheel and Gabe’s belt, wincing when he feels his finger scratch at Gabe’s wound.

“Sorry.” He doubts Gabe can hear him, especially over the oncoming roar of four motorcycles as they pour onto the freeway from an on ramp.

Two of the riders go flying off the bikes as Gabe hits them with both barrels. One of the white bikes goes spinning into the van and Mikey floors the gas. Gabe slams hard into the side of the car and Mikey tightens his grip at the impact. All he can hear is the road and the spit of the hot shell on the back window as Gabe pumps another round into the chamber.

The van and bike collide, the van spinning out and tipping onto two wheels before it rights itself and starts after them again. Gabe fires at one of the last two bikers, leaving a smear of red where his arm used to be. He falls back, nearly getting clipped by the van.

“Fucking _fuck_.” Gabe twists and sinks into his seat, scrambling to reload the shotgun. Mikey puts both hands back on the wheel, holding tight as he pushes the gas harder, increasing their speed. He doesn’t look at Gabe, doesn’t pay attention to the dark, clotted smell radiating off him and choking the car. “Just for the record,” Gabe pants roughly, lungs wheezing, “I really fucking hate these guys.”

“I don’t think they like us much either.”

“Oh, well. As long as it’s mutual.” Gabe pumps the shotgun. “I promise if I go out the window, I’ll do my best to get in the way of the van.”

“You’re never going to convince me you even know the meaning of self-sacrifice.”

“Fine. I’ll throw you in front of the bike.” He grins toothily and heads out the window again. The bike has gained on them, which gives Gave a decent shot. Mikey sees an explosion of red in the rearview mirror and can’t help but flinch.

Gabe slides back into the car, and Mikey risks a glance at him. He’s pale and sweating, his eyes too big for his face. “Take the wheel,” Mikey tells him.

“What the fuck do you think this is? Cannonball Run? Smokey and the Bandit?”

“Yeah, and I’m Burt fucking Reynolds. Take the fucking wheel.”

Gabe slides over, pressing his foot against the gas as he straddles the emergency brake. Mikey takes the shotgun in one hand as Gabe grips the wheel. “Bullshit. You can barely grow stubble. No fucking way you could manage a sweet-ass moustache.”

“You want to be Dom Deluise or Sally Field?” He edges out of the seat, leading with the shotgun as he leans out the window.

“I’m Jerry Reed, fucker.” Gabe wraps one arm around Mikey’s leg, holding him in place, Mikey’s knee digging into the seat between Gabe’s thighs.

Mikey’s first shot spiderwebs the windshield, making the van swerve. Two Dracs lean out the side door, white laser blasts zapping through the air. The paint along the driver’s side blisters with impact and Mikey jerks sharply.

“Dude,” Gabe snaps. “Bad enough I’m dying, can we not make me a fucking eunuch?”

“Spoil all my fun.” Mikey smirks and shoots again, the shot swinging wild and killing a pro-life billboard.

“Also not time for a political statement.”

“Next time I’ll hit a McDonald’s one. That better?”

“Shit.” Gabe ducks as a blast shatters out the back window of the car. “How about you hit the people shooting at us?”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.” Mikey fires again, hitting the van’s bumper. It falls off and the van runs over it, metal sending sparks up off the asphalt. Mikey fires again, exploding the van’s front tire and blowing it onto its side, Dracs flying out of the open side door and spraying across the road as the van spins in circles. “I have to do all the work, don’t I?”

“Sure thing,” Gabe agrees. “Should we go back and finish them like this is Street Fighter, or just keep going?”

“Stop and we’ll switch places.” Gabe pulls over to the side of the road. Mikey’s careful not to look at him, sure that his concern and worry would be easy to see. Gabe avoids his gaze as well, moving to the passenger’s side quickly. Mikey passes the shotgun back for Gabe to reload. “You think there’s a bounty on our heads?”

“That would be fucking awesome.”

Mikey nods, grinning as he angles the car back on the road. “If I get captured, I’d better get frozen in fucking Carbonite.”

**

They’re halfway through New Mexico and heading into Arizona when the car dies. One minute they’re cruising along doing 80, and the next minute the engine’s on fire and black smoke is clouding up the car. Gabe coughs and climbs out of the car as it coasts to a stop. “This is why we can’t have nice things, Mikey.”

“Fuck you.” Mikey takes the shotgun from Gabe and hands him the messenger bag. There’s not much left as far as supplies go, but there are a few bottles of water that they’re going to need, given that the road sign says the next town isn’t for another ten miles. “We need a plan.”

“We need a car.”

“We need a plan to get a car.”

“I vote for stealing one.”

Mikey rolls his eyes and starts walking. The heat seems even worse than it had in the car, not even the breeze of movement to cool them down. Mikey adjusts his stride to match Gabe’s without thinking, years of walking with Pete and Gerard and Frank making it natural, even though doing it for Gabe is another reminder Mikey doesn’t want.

“Pete’s probably in L.A. too.”

They haven’t talked about this either, the reasons they’re going to Los Angeles. Mikey’s been so focused on Gerard, knowing that Frank and Ray and their families are in the city too, that he hasn’t thought about anyone else. Thinking about more than that seems like too much, more than he can bear. Of course, they’d passed Chicago without a word, and Gabe already knows his family is gone. Pete’s probably the only person Gabe has left.

“Probably. Unless the family jetted off somewhere.”

“He’s got sources though. People.” Gabe nods, seemingly to himself. “I’m sure he’s okay.”

“I’m sure he is too. He’s a sneaky little bastard.”

“To put it mildly.”

They walk silently for a long time, and Mikey doesn’t let himself think about what lies ahead. He just keeps telling himself that he’ll get there, he’ll find Gerard and everything will be better, will make some sort of sense. He doesn’t realize he’s left Gabe behind until he turns to ask for a bottle of water. He glances back and Gabe’s a good half-mile behind him, walking slowly, his shoulders hunched. He starts to walk back to him, then stops and stands there instead, waiting for Gabe to catch up.

“Working on your tan, huh?” he says finally, when Gabe gets there, forcing his voice to sound casual.

Gabe snorts and hands Mikey the bottle of water. “Yeah. Thought I needed a little color.”

Mikey smiles and takes a drink, making sure he stays next to Gabe. “Let me know if you need to rest.”

“I’m fine. Slow, but fine.” His breathing is uneven and Mikey can practically feel the pain radiating off of him. “You should go on ahead.”

“Trying to get rid of me. Now that just hurts my feelings.” Mikey wraps an arm around Gabe’s shoulders. “You’re stuck with me, Gabanti.” He doesn’t put any pressure on Gabe’s shoulder, but he feels Gabe lean on him slightly when he wraps his arm around Mikey’s waist. “We should totally do that Laverne and Shirley opening bit.”

“You frighten me.”

Mikey grins and keeps walking, humming the theme song. Gabe ducks his head and buries it against Mikey’s chest for a moment, and Mikey adjusts to the change, careful not to break their stride.

**

They raid a dollar store that’s in the same strip mall as the hotel they find, stocking up on almost-expired food, first aid gear and what has to be the ugliest shirt Mikey has ever seen. It’s not a color found in nature, and it’s a size or two too big for Gabe, so it hangs like a dress, halfway down his thighs. Still, it’s not soaked with sweat or discharge from his wound, so Mikey figures it’s an improvement. At least for Gabe. Mikey’s the one stuck looking at it.

Gabe doesn’t bother with the shower, collapsing on the bed as soon as he’s inside. He’s shivering from the fever and from the air conditioning running full blast, and his body is covered in sweat. Mikey pulls a sheet up over him and runs cool water over a washcloth to put on Gabe’s forehead. “Next time we go for a walk, we’re going to need some sun block.”

“SPF 50.” Gabe’s teeth chatter and he curls up as best he can. “At least.”

“Get some sleep.” Mikey combs his fingers through Gabe’s hair and tucks the sheet around him, then heads into the bathroom to wash some of the sweat off his skin. The walk had been brutal and his face is bright red in the mirror. He tugs off his clothes and turns on the water, groaning when he steps under the spray.

He stays in the shower as long as he can stand it, then wraps a towel around his waist and goes back into the room. He knows he should get dressed in case they need to make a quick exit, but the thought of putting his clothes back on – sweaty, stiff and smelly – sounds like something worse than getting caught by the Dracs. Glancing at Gabe to make sure he’s still asleep, Mikey turns on the TV, flipping through channel after channel of snow until one of the stations flashes the BLInd logo at him.

 _“Did I take my medication today?”_

 _“Everything is going to be fine.”_

 _“Today is the dawn of a new world”_

He stares at the swirling black and white picture, one eyebrow cocked in disbelief. Gabe makes a noise and Mikey turns the volume down a bit to keep from waking him. The logo disappears and someone who looks like a low-rent William Beckett comes on the screen.

 _”In an ongoing mission to bring culture to the populace, Better Living Industries has acquired the broadcast rights for all radio stations. Reeducation programs are in effect for all citizens known to be affiliated with the music business, and reports show that soon everyone will be singing the same tune.”_

He watches the screen, the small box showing musicians being herded out of a studio and into a familiar white van. He thinks he recognizes a few of them, but when one of them turns to face the camera, he sucks in a breath.

“Gerard.”

 _“Signing off from Fact News, the only news.”_

Mikey stares at the screen even as it changes to an inane commercial for something ridiculous that’s usually relegated to late night TV. He can’t look away, listening through more commercials and propaganda cycles, waiting for the report to run again.

 _“Thank BLI for our food and water.”_

 _“Keep working hard to stay alive.”_

“I’m going to shoot the TV if you keep watching that bullshit.”

Mikey waves a hand at Gabe, refusing to look away. “I’m waiting for the news. Watch. You need to see this.” They get another news cycle, but it’s a weather report and Gabe makes a disgusted noise. “Shut up. It’s coming. I know it’s…there.”

Gabe’s silent as the clip shows again, and Mikey wishes he had a Tivo or something so he could slow it down. Gabe whistles low and shakes his head. “That can’t be good.”

“Reeducation centers.” Mikey gives the TV a dirty look then finally turns it off. He glances back at Gabe and shakes his head. “Maybe we…”

“Don’t even fucking think about it, Way. We’ve come this far, and you’re not going to chicken out because we’re actually _needed_.”

“You…”

“I know you’re not going to insinuate that I can’t do something.”

Mikey sighs and stares at the blank TV. “Maybe I’m scared.”

“Yeah.” Gabe says it softly and Mikey has to look at him. His shell of bravado is down, cracked and broken, and he looks like Mikey feels. “You’d be an idiot not to be. And I know you’re not an idiot. It’s just…” He looks down, and Mikey wonders what Gabe sees when he stares at the wound. “Since when do we let them think they can tell us what to do? Since when do we listen to all the haters? Fuck that, and fuck them. Right?”

He has to smile. “If the world is ending, we’re throwing a party?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Gabe laughs and stretches back out on the bed. “Though, for the record, if this is your definition of a party, Mikeyway, it kind of sucks.”

**

It comes down to luck, good timing and the fact that in the last gas station Gabe had picked up a lighter.

The closer they get to L.A. the more they have to resort to side roads and driving at night, hiding out during the day when the Dracs are out in full force. They sleep in shifts, the car hidden behind hills and clumps of Joshua trees. It’s covered in dust just like they are, so they just sit and watch, waiting in case anyone comes around.

Mikey opens a pepperoni stick and takes a bite. The greasy texture is the best thing he can imagine, and he closes his eyes to enjoy it as well as ignore Gabe’s look. “Hey, if they’d had a vegetarian stick, I would have grabbed it for you.”

Gabe ignores him and eats a handful of Cheeri-Os. Mikey grins and keeps eating, scanning the surrounding area. “You want to take a walk?”

“It’s over a hundred and nine degrees out there, I have a festering wound and you’re asking if I want to take a walk.” Gabe’s voice is deadpan. “Hell yes. I think if I sit in this car any longer, I’m going to lose all feeling in my legs.”

Mikey reloads the shotgun as Gabe angles out of the car, using the doorframe and the side of the car to steady himself. Mikey thinks briefly that, if it were Pete, he would keep talking to kill all the silences, and he’s not sure if he’d prefer that over Gabe’s stoicism. He shakes his head to clear the thought, not willing to dwell on where Pete might be or where Gabe would be if the positions were reversed.

“You know, it’s good thing there aren’t any zombies or Dracs or whatever, because you’re just sitting there on your ass, leaving me standing here like bait.”

Mikey gets out of the car and shuts the door behind him, hefting the shotgun. “No one said you couldn’t carry a weapon.”

“My cutting wit is all I need.” Gabe holds onto the car and reaches down, grabbing a long, weathered piece of wood off the ground, using it for support. “And, like, an AK-47 or something.”

“You’re so gangsta.” Mikey walks nearby, both of them falling silent as they look around. The desert is alive with noise, snakes and bugs and wind and sand, like nothing has changed. Mikey glances back to make sure he knows where the car is and sees that Gabe’s dragging his stick just enough to leave a trail in the sand. He looks up at him and smiles. “Are you Hansel or Gretel?”

“I’m totally more butch.”

“So you’re Gretel then.” Mikey grants Gabe a smile and dodges the half-hearted swing of Gabe’s hand. They walk a little further and Mikey’s just about to suggest heading back when they hear voices.

Gabe moves behind some rocks and Mikey follows, glancing over to where a circle of Dracs are sitting, leaning against their blinding white bikes. It’s like catching a beam of sun from a mirror full in the face, and Mikey flinches slightly. It takes a minute to decipher what they’re saying through the rubber masks, but eventually the words parse, and it’s all Mikey can do to keep from laughing. He hunches down and buries his face against Gabe’s shoulder.

“They’re talking about us.”

Gabe nods and smiles. “Mikey Fucking Way and the Cobra Kid.” He matches Mikey’s whisper with his own, carefully setting the messenger bag on the ground. He opens it and Mikey sees three bottles of booze and another pepperoni stick. Supplies are getting low. “What do you say we show them who they’re dealing with?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Go get the car.”

“Gabe.”

“Mikey.” Gabe looks at him, and something about his look lets Mikey know this isn’t a suicide mission. Revenge maybe. Up close and personal payback.

“Okay. I’ll get the car.”

“And give me your shirt.”

“My what?”

Gabe reaches over with his good hand and tugs on Mikey’s shirt. “Give it. And keep the motor running.”

**

He doesn’t see what happens. He sees the explosions one after the other and some scattered laser fire and then he sees Gabe scrambling for the car. Mikey revs the engine loud as Gabe falls in the back seat, popping the car into gear and peeling out before the door’s shut behind him.

“You’re fucking insane.”

“Yeah.” Gabe gasps, giggling, then gasps in pain. Mikey can smell the fresh blood as he whips along a dirt road that leads fuck-knows-where. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“Here’s a hint, dipshit. Maybe the guy with the sucking chest wound shouldn’t be throwing fucking Molotov cocktails at the bad guys and then running.”

“It’s not on my chest.”

“It’s a fucking figure of fucking speech.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Gabe manages to sit up with another gasp, his reflection in the mirror sweaty and pale despite his sunburn. “You knew what I was going to do.”

Mikey doesn’t respond for a while. Gabe’s right and they both know it. Instead he glances in the side mirrors to see if anyone’s following them. “You take ‘em all out?”

“Got three of them. One of ‘em is pretty badly hurt.” There’s a grim satisfaction in Gabe’s voice. “Hope the fucking Army ants eat him alive.”

“He’s going to call for reinforcements.”

“Yup.” Gabe’s smile tightens even more. “Everyone’s going to be on the lookout for us.” He glances at Mikey and for a moment, his smile is genuine. “Somebody really fucking hates us, Mikeyway.”

“Good.”

Gabe laughs and then his eyes roll back slightly, shock and exertion catching up to him. Mikey closes his eyes for a second and then concentrates on the road. If turning back was ever an option, it definitely isn’t now.

**

They’re another hundred miles closer, and Gabe’s back in the front seat after a trip to another convenience store garnered them more first aid supplies and new shirts for both of them.

“Promise me something.”

Mikey doesn’t look at Gabe, though he does smile. “I’m not reenacting any more scenes from ‘Thelma and Louise’. You’re going to have to find a new Brad Pitt.”

Gabe laughs then winces. “Fucker. Don’t make me laugh.”

They drive along in silence for a while and Mikey’s just about to ask Gabe what promise he wants when Gabe speaks again.

“Remember me, okay? Just…remember me.”

“Not that the Saporta ego needs any more stroking, but of course I’m going to remember you.”

“I just…I want to have meant something.”

“You did. You do. To me. To hundreds and thousands of people. You hit on something they needed, Gabe. Gave it to them.”

He nods and watches the flat of the desert around them. “Nobody’s going to sit Shiva for me.”

Mikey wants to tell him to cut it out, to stalk talking about dying, but the truth is that Gabe _is_ dying, and there’s nothing either of them can do to stop it. “I will.”

“You’re not Jewish and you don’t know how.”

“I can Google that shit. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to wrangle up a better volunteer.” He reaches over and takes Gabe’s hand, squeezing it. Gabe doesn’t have much of a grip, his arm almost useless. “I’ll remember.”

Gabe nods and closes his eyes. “Just another couple hundred miles.” His voice fades, drifting off as he does. “You’re almost home.”

Mike nods and uses the raw, scraped ball of his hand to scrub tears form his eyes. “You too.”

**

All the roads into Los Angeles are closed except for the major arteries, and those are clogged with the stop and go monotony of barely moving cars. The sun feels twice as hot as ever, the temperature past one hundred according to the car’s thermometer. The anti-pollution dome that then-Governor Schwarzenegger had helped push through congress is a bluish-silver eyesore, gleaming sharp and bright.

SCARECROW guards and Dracs are moving along the road, watching all of the mindless drivers as they inch their way forward. The familiar droning voice of the propaganda PSAs echoes across the desert like the voice of a pharmaceutical god. Even with their radio off, they can hear the push of pills. Obedience and surrender.

Gabe hands Mikey the binoculars. “There. Right of the platform. Access hatch.”

“I don’t even know how to find Gerard in all this mess.”

“Have to get in there and see what’s going on.” They’d found a pirate broadcast once they’d hit the California border, and as near as they can tell, the only sure thing is confusion and the threat of more sun, more heat and acid rain. “Wait until it gets darker, let them turn their forces loose inside and we’ll sneak in.”

“The news report said he’d been captured.”

“You spent seven solid hours telling me how Gerard could single-handedly thwart a zombie apocalypse.”

“Yeah.” Mikey’s brow furrows. “But I haven’t seen a zombie, have you?”

“Could you _not_ tempt fate?” Gabe flexes the fingers of his bad hand, watching as they barely move. “You remember the night we met?”

“At Amber Zweber’s house party when you grabbed me by the junk, said I’d do and then proceeded to do things to me on the makeshift dance floor that are still illegal in twelve states?”

“No.”

Mikey smiles and nods, something inside him aching. “Yeah.”

“I’ll go in first. Be a distraction, okay? Draw their fire so you can slip in.”

“No.”

“Yeah.” It’s Gabe’s turn to smile. “The last stand of Mikey Fucking Way and the Cobra Kid.”

“Call ‘em up and tell them we’re coming and hell’s coming with us?”

Gabe laughs and gets out of the car. His left side hangs funny, dropping and making him seem hunchbacked. Mike feels everything inside him twist. Gabe slaps the roof of the car with his good hand. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.”

“Gabe!” Mikey leans across the seat and looks out the window at him. He wants to say something, but everything’s already been said in what they’ve been through together. He lifts both of his hands, one in front of the other, fingers curled. “Fangs up.”

**

He wakes up in a white room.

White walls. White floor. White ceiling. White lights. White blanket. He’s wearing white briefs beneath it and his head on the white pillow is bare, clean-shaven and hair shorn. Standing across the room from him is a man, all in white.

“Hello.”

He has an accent, a rough Scottish burr. His arms are behind his back, the ruffled vee of his shirt framing a chest as devoid of hair as his head.

“Don’t try to move. You won’t be able to do that yet.”

Mikey can feel the burn on his skin where the lasers hit him. He casts his eyes down toward the blanket, looking for the familiar sight of a ray gun wound.

“Your friend didn’t make it. You needn’t worry though. After the New Jersey and Miami debacles, we recalibrated the intensity. Pity about him though. He would have been a wonderful example of how things don’t always go the way you plan.” He walks toward Mikey, pulling a capped syringe from his pocket. “You two messed up my plans _quite_ enough. Mikey Way and the Cobra Kid.”

“Mikey _fucking_ Way and the Cobra Kid.”

“Coarse. And not very original.”

“N-neither are you.”

He laughs and even his teeth are a blinding white. “I don’t have to be original.” He jabs the needle into Mikey’s bicep. “I just have to be effective.”

**

“Who are you?”

Mikey sits in the white chair and watches the man, moving only his eyes. He’s held immobile with iron bands and the hard circle of bolts pressed to his head. They’ve been at this for an hour, and as near as he can tell, they think Gabe was Mikey Way.

“Who are you?”

“Number six.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Would you prefer a target? A military target?”

“I would prefer-” He backhands Mikey solidly across the face. “Your name.”

“I’m a boy named Sue.”

Another hard slap and Mikey has to blink to clear his vision. “Your name.”

“My name is Prince. And I am funky.”

His fist hits Mikey in the jaw, knocking Mikey’s head to the side, jamming it hard against the bolts. “Your _name_.”

“Spartacus.”

Another solid punch causes Mikey’s chair to rock.

“I’m Batman.”

Blood trickles down Mikey’s face from where the bolts have torn the skin. It stains all of the white red.

“I’m a pepper. He’s a pepper. Wouldn’t you like to be a pepper too?”

The kick sends Mikey’s chair toppling backwards and he hits the floor hard, blood running into his throat. He groans and the man in white leans in close. “Your name.”

Mikey laughs and spits blood at him. “Elvis.”

**

He loses track of time, of everything. They shave his face and head regularly so he can’t gauge by that, and the inquisition happens whenever the bleeding stops. The meals come oddly spaced. For all he knows it’s just as likely been days as it has been years. He sees pictures of the faces of the Dracs they killed, he gets drugged and tested and indoctrinated by ridiculous sayings. Eat this. Take that. Don’t fight. Don’t resist. Don’t think. Don’t feel.

The voice always gets drowned out by the voice in his head, the one that mocks the PSAs, laughs at the bullshit slogans. Mikey hangs onto it, onto him. He promised to remember.

This time he’s shackled to a wall. The wall is white, but the chains are iron gray. He’s been in this room before, has seen other people with thick red welts heading back to their cells or to the reeducation centers. He’s standing facing the room, so he’s not sure what they have planned for him, beyond the usual. The man in white will come in and ask him question after question after question. He’ll hit and kick and punch and threaten. He’ll get angrier and angrier until he loses control and hits Mikey hard enough to make him black out. They’ve done this dance, Mikey knows all the steps.

Mikey leans back against the wall, the shackles rubbing painfully against his wrists. If life were a comic book, Gabe’s death would have somehow imbued him with mutant powers or radioactive abilities and he could rip the metal from the concrete and go on some hulk-like rampage. Instead he rubs the bottom of one shoe on the top of the other, smearing the white with gray dust.

The door opens and Mikey looks up, straightening as another person is shoved in the room with him. More white, another shaved head, just another prisoner until he raises his head, flipping off the Drac that tossed him in the room. “Gee.”

Gerard’s head whips around and he stares at Mikey in complete awe, probably a reflection of Mikey’s own look. Mikey drinks in the sight of him, cataloguing any changes, any differences in his brother that will call out for revenge. “They said you died in the New Jersey riots.”

“They lied.” Mikey’s voice is hushed and choked.

The Drac manhandles Gerard over to another set of manacles and chains him up, heading out of the room as soon as he’s done. “I figured. I heard about…about Mikey Way and the Cobra Kid. You guys were in the real news all over the place.”

“It’s Kobra.” Mikey doesn’t think, just speaks. “With a K.”

“Poison. Party Poison.” Gerard laughs. “Nobody ends a party like me, huh?”

“Nobody.” Mikey glances up at the shackles. “I’d hug you, but…”

Gerard nods. “Korse has been after you?”

“Is that the bald guy?”

Gerard casts a quick glance at Mikey’s own shorn head. “One of them.”

“What are they going to do to us in here?”

“When they cram a bunch of us in a room? It’s usually better not to ask.” Gerard glances around for the cameras that Mikey’s already detected. It’s not like anyone’s trying to hide them. He lowers his voice and doesn’t look over at Mikey. “Give them something, get into the center. It’ll be worth the cost.”

Mikey doesn’t react except to close his eyes as they bring in another prisoner. He doesn’t have a lot of value, except for the few things he won’t give up, but he’ll manage. Something. Somehow. For Gerard.

**

He keeps count as best he can, trying to figure out how long it’s been since he saw Gerard. He decides his own arbitrary days, waiting roughly two weeks before he lets Korse think he’s broken him. It’s easy enough. He just repeats the too familiar phrases and doesn’t react to the stimuli coming at him from the oversized TV screens. He knows he’s proven himself deadpan enough that he needs something more, he has to give something up to Korse.

He doesn’t give up his name or Gabe’s, but he tells them about a renegade outpost he and Gabe had found. It was empty and bombed out, but it hadn’t been raided yet, so he takes a risk and hopes it pays off.

It’s another two marks on his wall, makeshift days, when his glass cell door opens and he can fall in line with the others heading for the main room. The slogans are on constant repeat here, just barely audible, like a buzz under his skin. He ignores Gerard, certain that they’re still watching him. Instead he copies everyone else’s routine. It’s eight hours of mind-numbing boredom, repetitive tasks to ‘retrain’ them. He plays by the rules – round pegs in round holes, square pegs in square openings – and then follows the line back to his room. The Dracs hold ray guns on them, and everyone keeps moving, shuffling their feet in a private rhythm.

Four marks later, he’s at a table next to Gerard. They don’t interact, though Mikey feels the cool blade of a knife slide along his leg into his sock when someone accidentally upsets Gerard’s workstation.

He scratches his leg when he’s back in his cell, leaving the knife where it is, but dislodging the piece of paper into his hand. He recognizes the code from when he and Gerard were little, and he translates the message easily. It’s not much - _three more work cycles. Be ready_ \- but it’s enough that Mikey mixes the paper in with his soup, swallowing it down as loose and slippery as a noodle.

The next day he’s stationed across from Gerard, avoiding eye contact. He taps his thumb and two fingers against the table, a signal that he received the message, until one of the Dracs presses a ray gun to the back of his hand to stop the beat.

He doesn’t see Gerard the next day, and the third day he’s assigned to work a two-man lifting job. His partner starts vomiting before they even gets started and then Gerard’s there across from him, grabbing the other end of the giant paper rolls.

They work in silence, moving like they’re choreographed, always knowing where the other is. The shift is interminable and by the time it finally ends, Mikey can feel Gerard’s coiled energy radiating off of him, can feel his own pounding in his pulse.

They’re jerked out of line on the way back to their rooms by one of the Dracs, shoved toward the opposite hallway. He doesn’t say anything, but his gun digs into the small of Mikey’s back. Another guard joins them, one of the faceless SCARECROW, marching Gerard next to Mikey.

A door next to the Drac opens and Korse looks at them in shock until the Drac mutters a low ‘aw fuck’ and blasts him square in the chest. “Don’t just stand there, motherfuckers. _Run_.”

Mikey grabs the knife then takes off after Frank. “You son-of-a-bitch.”

“You can call me fucking pet names later.” Frank skids around a corner followed closely by the rest of them. When Mikey looks back, Gerard’s grinning like a madman.

“Should have known,” Mikey laughs as he catches up to Frank. “Never seen a Drac that fucking short.”

“Next time you can save your own ass.” Frank tackles Mikey, firing over his shoulder as they both go down, sliding across the floor under a gunfight and right past the Drac Frank shot. They scramble to their feet and Frank pushes him toward a van parked outside the tinted glass doors. Frank jerks his arm and he comes to a stop, ducking as a blast takes the doors out.

“C’mon. C’mon.” There’s a guy on roller-skates hauling them through the broken glass and into the van. In a quick glance, Mikey sees Steve firing a sawed off shotgun from another van. More glass falls and Mikey sees Steve turn, falling face first into the van beside him. The roller skater races toward him, jumping into the back of that van and pulling Steve along with him. Mikey watches it all through a blur of white as Frank and Bob shed their uniforms and Ray sprays glass and gravel behind them, pulling out of the BL/ind compound fast enough to throw them all against the back of the seats.

Mikey shakes his head and sits up then grabs Gerard, holding him tight. “Gee. Fuck. Gee.”

Gerard pulls him even closer, whispering Mikey’s name. He’s not sure how long they stay like that before the adrenaline fades. He pulls away from Gerard long enough to hug Frank and Bob and to reach over and mess up Ray’s hair. He finally slumps against the side of the van, laughing in disbelief. “You guys planned a fucking revolution without me.”

“Fuck that.” Frank lights a cigarette and sucks in a deep breath. “We heard about two guys headed our way, wreaking havoc on BL/ind. You’re the fucking _reason_ for the revolution. Mikey fucking Way and the Cobra Kid.”

Mikey sighs shakily and rests his head on Gerard’s shoulder. “Just the Kobra Kid now.”

“No,” Gerard murmurs softly. “Now you’ve got us.”

**

 **Epilogue** :

There’s a name scratched into the fiberglass on the inside of Mikey’s helmet. Every time he puts it on, he runs his fingers lightly over the three words.

He doesn’t forget and now it doesn’t hurt as much to remember. They sat their own version of Shiva, each of them telling the most dirty and disgusting Gabe stories they knew. He’s not sure it was much of a send off, but the Kobra Kid is still fighting, and that’s the best tribute Mikey can give.


End file.
